I don't know if I've mentioned this before here, but for a couple of years now, I've decided that I want my first-dance song at my wedding, should I ever choose to get married, to be "Fade Into You" by Mazzy Star. It's a really beautiful, dreamy, lush, gently orchestral song with a softly lilting rhythm that is just perfectly romantic without being saccharine. There is, of course, only one person I've ever actually fantasized about marrying (and only one person with whom I've ever actually seen any real point to marriage. I never understood why people even really bother until I met him.)

I try not to get overly sentimental. It's so easy to slip from being emotional into being maudlin.

But I'd rather be at the mercy of my emotions than be dead inside. My therapist that I saw while I was home wants me to get a tattoo and drink and have sex and wear leather pants and be a little bit reckless and young and feel strong. I would rather be a mess than feel nothing. And I've felt so little over the past few years, other than a quietly deadened loneliness. I so rarely get really sad or happy or angry. All I feel is my weak, sick, painful body.

That's not who I want to be, anymore.

I used to go to a lot of concerts. They're one of the real highlights, actually, of my middle school and high school life. Music was a big part of what kept me going. When I had super long thick hair I gave myself whiplash from thrashing around in my room. To Nirvana, usually. In early high school I was in love with someone who loved Nine Inch Nails, so I started listening to them, too. For weeks at a time I would wake up to "Head Like a Hole" playing from my CD player. (Pretty Hate Machine was my favorite NiN album. It still is. I find that there's a playful and irreverent spirit to it that was just lost later on.) I painted my fingernails black over crimson nail polish and wore combat boots. I didn't sleep much. I dreamed a lot. I was skinny and nervous and too pale. I cried a lot and sometimes forgot to eat. I hissed and sneered and sometimes walked arm-in-arm with the boy I loved down the hallways and felt so happy that it hurt, because I know how fleeting that intensity was. I loved him painfully, unimaginably, with an almost physical force. I wrote all the time.

And I was oh, so far from happy. But that girl is gone. I'm afraid that I'll never be that bold, that intense, that vital ever again.

Being back at school isn't so bad. It's hardest on the weekends. My classes are great and exciting and stimulating and they keep me going through the week. The weekends are the tough part. They always have been. I dig deep and find little more than emptiness.

Leather pants are a start. Tattoos maybe, body piercings. Modeling myself, slightly at least, in this regard, after the pure raging id that is Faith from Buffy, played by the ravishing Eliza Dushku.



Obviously, crossbows come later. But a little more id in my life is not a bad idea.

Sometimes I can smell the hospital smell. I don't know why...certain kinds of sanitizer, I guess, or the clothes that I'm wearing, the combination of the fabric smell and whatever detergent I've been using, or psychological assocations. I could smell it a minute ago, and it gave me the shivers. Not the good ones. I hate hospitals and I've spent much more time in them than people should have to. Most of the time before I was even six years old, so I don't remember much, but it's still in there. Along with the two seizures I had as a three-month-old, I had constant respiratory infections as a kid. Croup, pneumonia, bronchitis. It was hardest on my brother, I think. My parents were old enough to understand and I was too young to understand, but he was just the right (wrong?) age for it to be kind of traumatic. He's much more squeamish about hospitals than I am, actually.

And, you know, I try to joke around about the health stuff because it makes it easier (humor is my primary defense mechanism about everything, anyway), and it's the best way to deal with it, and it puts other people at ease at the same time, which then makes me feel a little better. But I do get scared sometimes. I know that the psychogenic explanation for my seizures is the most likely one at this point, but it's not the only thing that's wrong with my body. I have constant aches and pains and fatigues and it's gotten so much worse in the last couple of years. My energy level has decreased so much. I can't live the same way I used to. I need to rest so much more often. I'm more sensitive to temperature and my joints ache all the time. I'm always dizzy and my stomach is always getting fucked up (it always has, but that's been getting worse, too.) And, you know, all this plus the seizures...I am just not convinced that the answers have been found yet. And I hate admitting it, really I do, but it does get seriously scary sometimes. Like when I couldn't see for two hours after my last one. And having the history of such an utter lack of fucking compassion with the way people dealt with it in high school - it all makes it harder to deal with now because of that in my past.

And, you know, fuck. I miss someone from the past today, really badly. I have been lately, in general, but it's worse today. Our relationship was never a healthy one and I know, intellectually, that it's probably better off for me to be apart from him. We both brought out things in one another that we probably shouldn't have been pulling out. Some things need to stay underneath, sometimes. But, God, I had never felt more extraordinary or creative or utterly understood. There was soulmate - fucking soulmate! - potential there and sometimes I really thought he had been created for me and me for him. And I don't go for shit like that. But he made me believe it, or at least want to.

I remember when I used to go to dark places just to devastate myself, just so that I could have him comforting me. I needed him all the time, not just when I was breaking down, but every day, on my ordinary everyday levels of misery, but I couldn't tell him that because I was too afraid of losing what little I had. Our relationship had already utterly fallen apart once by that point, and I couldn't lose him so completely again by pushing it too hard, getting too intense. So I let myself crumble just so that I could have him put me back together again. One of the most fucked-up, self-destructive things I've ever done. I'm lucky I didn't push it farther than I did.

And yet right now I'm feeling like I want to do it again, like I would if he were here. Push it again. Is that even love? I don't know what it is, how it qualifies, but I know that I want him in my life again, as ill-advised as that probably is. We were so perfect for each other and so terrible for each other at the same time. I have never needed anybody so much, nor ever felt so needed, but maybe that's not something I should keep pushing for. Like I said, is that even love? It's a pretty fucked up love if it is, but right now I kind of wouldn't have it any other way.

Whatever it is, I want it back. Whatever he is, I want him back.

This is basically "Why Cassie shouldn't listen to the Counting Crows when already in a melancholy mood."

"A Murder of One," to be specific. Beautiful song. One of my favorites, ever. And depressing as all hell.

I was thinking about things that cannot be forced, partially in connection with my own creativity. I used to write all the time. I started writing stories when I was four and could not yet even physically write, but dictated stories to my mom. From the ages of, I don't know, four until about eighteen I have notebooks upon notebooks upon notebooks filled with stories, attempted novels, poems, songs, even an aborted screenplay. And of course the vast majority of it looks obviously like it was written by a child/teenager/young adult, there's definitely some profound stuff in there and I truly don't know where that creativity went. All of those urges. I thought that once I was in college, with my creativity and intellect nourished, it would flourish more than ever, but instead it's gone downhill.

I was also inevitably thinking about love, in terms of things that can't be forced. You can wish all you like. You can manipulate, cajole, trap, seduce, rape, intimidate, demand, cripple and brainwash, you can kill someone with kindness and be selfless or appallingly selfish and in the end it will not matter, because all the yearning in the world simply will not make someone love you. It's something that can only be willingly given.

I've been in love with the same person for so long that I start to wonder sometimes if it's even him I'm still holding on to, or just the idea itself of the love. If it's just stubbornness and an unwillingness to let go of something that I've wanted for so long. I haven't seen him in so long now and there are no new memories to make. Nothing new to go over. And it'll seem like more of a longing for the past than a longing for him.

And then I'll get a sudden flash of a memory, something so sharp and potent that I can actually almost feel him next to me and I'm left gasping and reeling from it, suddenly missing him so much it's like a physical ache in my chest.

I didn't grow up dreaming of getting married. I never envisioned myself in a wedding dress, even as a little girl. I dreamed of true love, but getting married was never something I particularly cared about. I never even really understood the point of getting married. It never even seemed necessary until I met him. And then I understood why people do it. Because I wanted so much to stand up in front of all the people I cared about and profess my love, and tell the world that he was mine and I was his, and - it just all clicked into place for me then.

He's long gone and I don't know what to do with all this. I've often frightened myself a little with how deeply and quickly I fall in love. I can imagine myself with someone else, but I can't imagine how I could ever let this one go. I'm not even sure that I want to.

I miss him every day.

There was a friend I had for many years. Self-destructive, angry, careless. He treated me badly and I treated him with a ridiculous amount of kindness. And he's been through so much in the last couple of years, and I've been wondering lately if I even still care about him all that much - and even if I ever really did, or if it became about stubbornness once again. Like if I admitted that he just wasn't worth it, that there wasn't much in my heart for him anymore, it would void all the time I spent trying to help him, all the tears I shed when I didn't even know if he would live out the week.

I don't know how to answer that question, and I worry that it was just stubbornness. Because I don't know what that says about me - that I would hold on to something for so long, not to mention giving that person hope that I cared more than I really did, simply because I was unable to admit to myself that I was wrong, that my affection was misplaced.

I don't know. Things are really strange right now and I really don't know how to answer these questions. And I'm afraid of what I might see in myself if I do.

Well, I'm back at Smith. Moved in yesterday. Classes haven't started yet but they do tomorrow and I just saw my mom off. I'm going to miss her terribly but it's much better than last year, when I was moving into a new house and had very few friends, or my first year when I was totally suspended. This year I know and love my house and I know I have friends (even though Lisa is abroad this semester and I already miss her dreadfully) and I'm fairly well settled. I know my majors, I've declared, I have a better idea of what I want to do with myself, I'm working on finding a work study job and I'm a little more confident that I know I can handle things. I'm just going to miss my mom terribly, that's all.

And the kittens! I'm going to miss them awfully, too. I spent almost all day every day with them this summer and it's going to suck not having their screaming furry little faces around all the time. They got fixed and declawed this past Monday and we got them back Wednesday (Abbey, aka Princess Bitchcat, was VERY happy with the two-day vacation she got from them), and so it was a lot of antibiotic-giving. Those two just don't know to take it easy. Poor Duncan's front paws swelled up to nearly twice their normal size because he got cat litter in them AND is apparently not smart enough not to figure out that maybe he shouldn't be jumping up and down such high surfaces. Mabel, for her part, is a little bit OCD and would not stop licking and picking at herself. I now have cat blood stains from her feet on the surface of one of my notebooks, which is just LOVELY.

Plus they're going to be going insane without the attention and affection to which they've grown accustomed. My mom joked that she'd have to get a baby sling and hold Duncan in it while she cooked and cleaned and went about her evenings.

She also says that if she does that, that's the moment that she officially becomes a crazy cat lady and I am inclined to agree. Still, I can imagine doing that myself. Duncan in particular is my baby, after all.

I also left my computer charger at home - of all the things! so my mom is going to next-day it to me and in the meantime, I'm trying to limit my computer time and I'll try to borrow a charger from someone who has the same computer. It's hard, though. What am I going to DO with my free time??

It really is good to be back, though. I'm a little worried about how things are going to go, but there's no doubt that this is where I'm supposed to be right now and I'm sure I'll end up having a pretty good time. I'm excited about my classes and really excited to be back in Northampton. I want to try to start working out again (which I say every time a season starts or ends, I know), if only for my energy level, which seems to be decreasing quite a lot over the past couple of years. I don't have the same level of energy that I had even a couple of years ago, at all, and I want to try to make that a little bit better if I can. And I want to try to write more again. It's something that I've missed and I have a feeling I'll feel more like myself again if I can figure out how to get that going.

Till then.

When I see pictures like this I think I must be living in an alternate reality.



I bet Hell, if it exists, is a lot like our world. Only more dull, soul-sucking, and absurd. I've often thought of hell having frustrating, but essentially mundane, things - like having to sneeze for all eternity and never being able to. Or an annoying, shrill ring tone that never, ever, ever stops. Ever.

I really don't know why I think about these things. I haven't had class since Thursday - I normally only have one class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and that professor is currently in Europe - and I think it's starting to make me a little bit weird. Although to be fair, I've been thinking about these kinds of things for years, so maybe that has absolutely nothing to do with it.

I think it's the hot weather, too. I'm not overheated right now, but it seeps into my bones and makes me sick and crazy. It's supposed to be 93 degrees tomorrow. I'm concerned. Hopefully I can hole up in air-conditioned rooms all day, but I know the room where I have History of Rock isn't air-conditioned and that could get bad. Very bad. Heatstroke/seizure/dehydration bad.

I hate this hot weather, but like I said, I also like it. It connects me to things I can't usually tap into. Not for years now, not since I started sleeping again and stopped writing so veraciously and things evened out for me. Not that I'm sorry that happened - I'm a hell of a lot more stable than I was then - but there are things about that time that I miss.